Saying Good Bye

Somewhere in the mid-1990s, a little band of stray cats took up residence in my garden. I gave them food and water, and one at a time, was able to put them in carriers to bring to the vet to be "fixed" and vaccinated. The last little guy (for some reason, they were all male) showed up almost a year after the rest, toward the end of his kittenhood. More skittish than the others, he wouldn't let me touch him directly. I had to pet one of the other cats, then he'd sidle up next to the other cat and rub against it, and then I could pet him as long as he didn't look up and see I was touching him.

During Brighter Days in 2006

He never really lost his general distrust of people (probably a good thing, being an outdoor cat), but over time we reached an understanding that I could, for very short periods, scratch his head, and he became comfortable enough to follow me around the garden at a safe distance and meow at me as I worked. I named him Joxer the Mighty, after a tv character who was also a bit of a chicken, but he became my Booboo kitty.

One by one, my feline brood passed on or disappeared and Booboo was the last of the bunch. A friend who rescues cats brought another outdoor cat, Chuck, to keep him company. Things went well until this summer, when Booboo had a tumor removed from his leg. The tumor was not biopsied, but I suspect it was cancerous. Not long after its removal, Booboo lost a lot of weight.  And then he lost his strength, began walking unsteadily and his fur lost its lustre.

Supervising in the Garden, 2007

I decided to bring him indoors when the temperatures dropped and the rains came. Even in his weakened state, he made a couple of runs at the door to try and make it back outside. But in spite of the fact that I was giving him all the food he could eat, it just went right through him, and though I didn't know it at the time, tumors had developed around his abdominal area, and he was probably starving to death. He was in such bad shape, even Piglette didn't growl at him when he took a kibble from her bowl last night (she chases Gigi for even coming near her bowl).

Thin, but still on his feet, November 2012

When I woke up this morning, I found him on the floor, unable to move, and scrambled to bring him to the vet so that he wouldn't suffer. In retrospect, by the time I found him, he was probably beyond suffering, and I'm second guessing my decision to take him to the vet. Maybe it would have been better to wrap him in a blanket and make him as comfortable as possible so he could have passed on at home. I guess I'll never be sure.

Shinnen Akemashite Omedetou Gozaimasu

The new year (oshogatsu) is particularly important in the Japanese tradition. It represents the chance for a fresh start, with proper preparation, of course. December is spent in purification, cleaning house (osoji), both literally and figuatively, in order to begin the new year with a clean slate, decorating with pine and bamboo kadomatsu for good luck, and sending New Year's postcards (nengajo).

For those interested in learning more about oshogatsu in general, the Japanese American National Museum has a good, but concise description. Wikipedia also has an overview. I could have sworn I wrote a more comprehensive blog entry about oshogatsu a few years ago, but I can't find it!

Kinpira, gobo (burdock root) and carrot

I julienne them with a knife, because food processors make the pieces too small

The final days of the year are spent cooking food with special significance with regard to health, longevity, prosperity and fertility (osechi) so the first few days of the new year can be spent with family. Some descriptions of osechi can be found at bento.com or norecipes.com and Yuka Yamaguchi also has a few recipes on her blog. Even though I can buy osechi at the local Japanese grocer, I still make my own. Since this is the only tradition I really observe, I figure I should do it correctly. Plus, the stuff is expensive!

Nishime in one of Grandma's Imari dishes

Includes renkon (lotus root), gobo (burdock root), 

takenoko (bamboo shoot), konnyaku (potato starch)

As you know, this year, actually the last two years, have not been the best, financially, socially, emotionally. I even lost a cherished friend, who brought only kindness to the table when all I brought was drama. I knew I was being unreasonable, but couldn't help myself. It is in my nature to push those I care about away from me and completely alienate them. I wrote recently about how people move in and out of our lives, but what I didn't mention is that those who leave due to our own foolishness hurt the most.

The last two years I've strayed from the tradition of opening my house during Oshogatsu. Maybe beginning the year on the wrong foot jinxed me. On top of that, one month after the current year began I turned 43 and thus began the 44th year of my life. 4 is bad luck in Asian cultures that have been influenced by the Chinese, because it is a homophone for death. 44 must be doubly bad.

As December ticks down to the new year I hope to begin it on the right foot, just in case. I am currently making much-needed repairs on the house, organizing bills to be paid before year's end, gathering my house cleaning supplies, prepping my cookware and shopping lists, and making sure the tv works for my grousing dad, so that I can start the year with a clean slate and focus on spending time with my family and closest friends during Oshogatsu. And of course, as a hedge, one month later, I'll be beginning the 45th year here.

The Great Sofa Experiment 2010

People have been complaining about my father's sofa for years.  When you sit, you sink almost to the floor and good luck standing back up!  It never bothered him until he had problems getting up from a nap one day, so he wandered aimlessly in a store for a few minutes and left because no one came to help him.  I told him I could probably reupholster it, but no guarantees.  He gave the go-ahead and I stripped that puppy down.  Here it is mid-strip.

 

I began the re-covering process from the ground up, reinforcing the springs from underneath with webbing, and re-tying them. This was the easy part for me, because nothing on the inside has to look pretty.

Here it is reinforced and ready to be padded and covered.  So far, so good, but from this point, I was regretting not taking better notes when I took that upholstery class.

I blind-stitched the front on first.  Except I couldn't remember EXACTLY how to blind stitch, so it was more like visible stitching.  Luckily, that portion is covered by the cushions!  Then I did the inside of the arms and inside of the back.  You can't exactly tell from this photo, but the back is lumpy. Oops.

I put on the front of the arms next, then when I tried to do the outside of the arms, discovered about 3/4 of the way through the process why there is a specific order to do these things in.  Off came the outside and fronts of the arms.  And back on they went, outsides first, then the fronts. After that, finishing the back was easy.

But I still had to make the cushion cases.  I started one evening, measuring and cutting the pieces, starting to sew that night, but the thread kept breaking.  I cleaned and oiled the sewing machine, checked the needle, put the piece in, and was halfway down the seam before I realized the thread had broken again!  Frustrated, I completely changed the thread ... and was fine.  The other thread was too old.  I finished the case, measured it, and realized I'd allowed too much for the seams (which is better than not leaving enough, but still a pain).  I had to rip it apart, cut it down and start over.  Somewhere around 5:00am, I headed to bed.  I followed that same process for the other two, but finally finished.  I stuffed the cushions, stuck them on the sofa ... and somehow they were still too large!  There was no way I was going to do them over AGAIN, so it will stay this way...

Well, that was March and April for me. How was yours?

All I Got Was A Rock

I turned 43 last month, a fact that is completely irrelevant to this post other than the company I kept on the day the meter flipped.  I stopped celebrating birthdays years ago, when they began to be more of a source of stress than of joy, and this year would continue that trend.  I planned to walk on the beach, contemplating life, the world, and other oddball thoughts that popped into my brain.

And then, one of my friends stopped by with a gift.  I should mention that we're friends because he's been a good friend to me.  I'm a lousy friend:  I don't call; I don't write; I forget birthdays and anniversaries; I'm a hermit.  He's one of the few who has stuck around in spite of my flakiness.  I don't say this enough to those few, but I love them and appreciate all the little things they do for me even though I'm too much of a dolt to always acknowledge it.  Okay, time to get off this tangent!  My friend had the day off work, so he joined me on my little beach excursion.

As we sauntered along the sandy shore, we came upon cement piers rising out of the sand.  25 years ago, these columns penetrated what had been solid ground at the time.  Now, the pounding surf along the California coast has eroded away that soil, leaving only the columns and what's left of the building on top of them teetering on the edge of the jagged cliffs that are still disintegrating into the Pacific.

My friend with his (son's) hunk of clay

February 2010

My friend walked up to touch the crumbling ground under the columns, and a fairly large chunk of clay came off in his hands.  He left it on the beach as we continued on our way out, but on the way back, he picked it up again, thinking it would be a fun toy for his youngest child, who was learning about soil and rocks in school.  It was a bit on the heavy side, slightly awkward to hold, and a bit messy, but he carried it along the beach, and managed to keep hold of it as we scrambled back up the cliffs to the car.  The next week, he reported that his son had a ball turning that lump of clay into dust and mud.  An act of love from father to son.

It was a touching experience for me.  And it evoked a memory from my childhood about another rock.

I was with my parents on a fishing trip to the Smith River in Oregon.  The walk from our campsite to the river was fairly long, over rocky, unstable terrain.  On that particular day, I was with my mother.  As we walked to the river, she spotted a rock with a slightly different texture than the others.  At 9 inches long, 6 inches wide and 15 pounds, it was not exactly a light load for a 5'3" woman carrying fishing tackle.  But mom fell in love with that hunk of granite, so she picked it up and lugged it with her to every fishing spot that day.

While navigating over the rock field back to the campsite at the end of the day, mom's strength finally gave out.  The rock was heavy.  And with all her fishing tackle, it was also awkward to keep hold of.  And now, I have to admit I'm an even worse daughter than I am a friend.  I wasn't much help.  Okay, I wasn't any help.  In fact, at that point, I was probably whining about being tired and hungry and wasn't about to help carry either her gear or the rock. Yes, I was the dreaded spoiled brat, and to this day my only regrets in life have revolved around not being the daughter I should have been.  Reluctantly, mom set her rock down, hoping she might remember where it was, but doubtful she'd be able to find that particular rock again in the vast open sea of rocks.  She was disappointed, to say the least.

Piglet and my mom's rock
March 2010

We returned to the campsite sans rock, and mom started dinner, still a little sad about her rock.  Half an hour later, dad returned from his own day of fishing.

"Hey, look at this rock I found!"

There in his arms, was mom's rock.

Who can say whether he happened to pick up the same rock purely by chance, or if there had been some sort of "psychic" connection between my parents.  But I do know that the chances of two people walking the same route over a large stone field, and picking out the same rock in a sea of rocks are pretty slim.  30 years later, in my not-completely-objective memory, I'd like to believe my parents did have some sort of spiritual connection and his choice of bringing that stone back was an act of love from husband to wife.  In my delusional memory, I'd like to believe my dad's act absolved me of my brattiness that day, but that's probably stretching it!

February

My mom's tree, San Mateo, CA

4 Feb 2010

Two weeks ago, Piglet and I visited the flowering cherry my family planted at the local park in memory of my mother.  It was a chilly day (for the Bay Area) and overcast, but the tree was just pushing out its first buds of the season (top photo). On Monday, I went hiking on Mount Tamalpais in Marin with a few friends.  It is an ideal time of the year to see waterfalls along the trails, and we were also lucky enough to see the first flowers of spring in bloom, white lilies (bottom photo).

During a particularly bleak year, when the humbling and numbing experience of searching for work in a market where there is seemingly none leaves in its wake the hopeless feeling of being unproductive, unneeded, even unwanted, the first signs of renewal are especially comforting.  Perhaps there is some glimmer of hope for the future. 

During my search for employment or some untapped niche to fill, I am also taking time to pay attention to my long-neglected household duties (repairs I can't really afford now that I'm not working, grossly overgrown garden), and contemplating finding some good cause to support.  I'd thought about going to battle with the health care industry and Congress over the insurance industry's death grip on what is a failing system, at least from the consumer point of view, but that is a war I can't win and could possibly work against me in ways I can't even imagine at this point.  If anyone has a good idea, let me know...

The first lilies of the year on Mt Tamalpais

15 Feb 2010

It never rains in Southern California

A Mother's Hands

Long Beach, December 2009

Or so they say.  But the dark grey sky over Long Beach turned into a giant, cold, shower stall Saturday morning, as I arrived at my destination.  Walking into the building, I saw people filing into a room at the end of the hall.  I signed the guest book, turned to follow the others.  She was at the door, hugging everyone as they entered.  And then it was my turn.

"I'm glad you made it."

"There is no way I would miss this.  I love you."

"I love you, too."

Long Day for Grandma
Long Beach, December 2009

Similar stops with her husband, sister, mother, in-laws, before taking a seat.  Her mother walked to the front, put a hand on the tiny creme-coloured box, not much larger than a shoe box, closed her eyes, and put her head down.  They say there is nothing more difficult than having to bury your own child.  In that moment, I could see that burying a grandchild is just as painful.  This particular grandchild never had the opportunity to breathe even the smoggy Southern California air.  And this particular grandmother came within a hair of losing one of her children at the same time.  In delivering her stillborn child, an infection traveled up the umbilical cord, sending her into septic shock, and she battled for her life for almost a week before the doctors finally cleared her to return home, 40 years to the day that she had been born herself.

The moisture absorbed by our clothes and hair in the 30 seconds it took us to get from the building to the car was enough to fog up the windows, even with the defroster running full blast.  Large drops continued to fall.  At the cemetery, we ran for the shelter of the canopy set up for us, huddling with the others.  The burial service began, and suddenly, the rain stopped.  Above us, a small slit appeared between the clouds.  A slender shaft of light reached down.  As we said farewell to Genevieve, we all imagined that particular ray of sunshine had come for her, to carry her to her next destination.

Giving Thanks

Montara, CA

February 2007

The path ahead is uncertain and unstable,

but I continue.

The situation I desire is improbable,

but I wait for it.

Through everything, only one person is there

to pick up the pieces when I fail.

I don't always agree with you.

And no one else can piss me off like you,

but you've always been there when I needed you.

Thanks, dad.

p.s.:  I will deny this tomorrow.